


Tomorrow's Good

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-07
Updated: 2005-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7095865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Escape from LA Ficathon - Life in Cairo as an ex-watcher. He didnt come there looking to be a hero but was nevertheless bound to become one anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow's Good

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

**Title:** Tomorrow’s Good  
 **Author:** Winter M (winter_rogue12@yahoo.com)  
 **Rating:** R for some sensuality  
 **Pairing:** W/Oz  
 **Warnings:** m/m  
 **Spoilers:** none really  
 **Requirements/Summary:** Written for the **Escape from LA Ficathon** _Pairing:_ surprise me. Someone from Sunnydale or an OC. _One or more restrictions:_ No character bashing. _Four requirements:_ a surprise visit from his father, watching Doyle's video, Cuban food, the smell of rain on pavement.  
 **Feedback:** is much appreciated :)

Italics blocks of text indicate flashbacks.   
**indicate video footage

 

Egypt is an old, tired land; dusty and dried out. The Nile snakes and twines its way through the desert, coming up through the Nubian desert past Aswan from Abyssinia all the way to the Mediterranean. It floods and makes fertile that strip of land through the country, that strip of land that soon disappears into the sands of the desert.

And on the southern tip of the island Rawda or Roda as the natives call it, facing the old city Al Fustat to the east, there stands the box-like pillar of the Nile meter. Like a sentry waiting for that flood each year to come and raise the level, the people’s only assurance for the year to come. Each year do they wait, breaths’ caught and held, tasting like stale air in the back of their throats. Straining to be released and reassured by that level on the mark, and each year it rises a little bit less; not unlike the city capital itself. 

Cairo, the city victorious as it has been called in ages past by invading armies. I ran halfway around the world, to Africa, to the ancient places where dead things sleep and are forgotten by the young and feared by the very old. Where cities stood and fell, only to be remade in the image of each successive empire that conquered the river territory.

Sometimes I feel like that lonely obelisk that stands in the Tell Hisn district, a single testament of the city to which it had once belonged. Now it is nothing more then a dagger tooth of reddish sandstone, roughened and worn down after years of sandstorms and wind and heat and the swirling dust of day-to-day life.

Sometimes I feel like the sand, insignificant on its own, a single grain cannot ever truly irritate one who is accustomed to it; they are tossed from place to place by any gust that might come along, strong or weak. Intemperate, I am worn down and unsteady, seeking out a place to rest that I can call my own. Once, I had thought I had found that, before that I had thought I might be close to something but both presumptions in the end were inaccurate at best. 

I ran away from both.

Everything rustles in Cairo. The sand is still though some part of it somewhere is always being disturbed. Shifting and blowing, a sandaled foot scrapes through it on its way home; a broom expels it from a doorstep with force. The night is ever always loud or silent. A bird cries out upon the tangled wasteland of the suburbs and partiers make noisy revelry out on the dark waters of the Nile. Or in dark alleys, demons shift silently through the night, taking their victims quickly and without hassle.

The people are lively, both in the sun and out of it. Vibrant they shimmer like heat waves until that time when the oppression becomes too much and they burn themselves out quietly. An illusion that wavers and melts away like smoke. The lines from that poem, Dylan Thomas if I remember correctly, they came to me again in this city— _“Do not go silently into this good night! Rage, rage against the dieing of the light!”_

He was an American, obviously.

I came into Egypt not really expecting to stay; somewhere I was making plans to head for India and perhaps to loose myself in the Mountains there, like Angel had. It seemed to help him so why not I? But before I had realized it this city had captured me in its ancient grasp, the sticky gossamer strands of a spider’s nest coiling around my limbs and refusing to be rid of me.

They were crying out for someone to stand against the night, to rail against it. Cairo had known slayers, and before Cairo, in Memphis and Heliopolis, they too had trembled before the might of one girl. But that was long ago and the slayer had disappeared from this place out of memory for hellmouths and Council bureaucracy.

The city and its people wandered breathless, waiting for the Nile flood, waiting for the cloying sunrise. But I was discouraged and tired, beaten down in my own pain and I didn’t feel like trying to play the hero. I had left him in LA.  
\- - -  
It had been easy so far that night, the crowded streets buzzed with people and life and blood. They strained against one another, jostling and shouting in their eagerness and greed. The stores in the bazaars stayed open late the week leading up to the mawlid of Sayyida Zaynab, selling trinkets to tourists at twice their already bloated prices. The locals haggled and bought and sold and laughed at the Europeans and the Americans, not to be taken by fortunistic stall owners themselves.

Demons came out and wandered amongst the humans. They went with the flow, their cold hands caressing furnace hot flesh and disappearing again into the anonymity of faces. It was fairly easy for me to blend into the crowd; I was dressed simply in worn jeans and a dark shirt, coat thrown casually over one shoulder for when the night grew chilly, and altogether making my own sort of predator. It was even simpler to follow suspicious shapes as it was to remain innocuous. 

Down dark, dirty alleys, waiting for the monster to reveal itself. Then I moved, as efficiently as I knew how to move, a quick thrust of a stake of the twanging release of a bolt. The people here were as good at turning dumb eye and ear to the strange as the people of Sunnydale had when it suited them.

The night was wearing on by the time I grew tired of the chase, making my way down the winding streets of the old quarter, cobbled and cramped, left over from the Ottoman occupation. A little open air café sat off a side street, slightly away from the hustle and bustle of the people. The owner was a tiny Cairene, long dark hair threaded with beads and braided back from her face eclectically. Neither Islamic nor truly Coptic, she wore her face unveiled, her skin was a dark almond color but her eyes were blue, giving away her European roots. 

She used an antique Turkish coffee grinder for everything, cranking the handle around and around or leaving her youngest song to work it—a widower, she relied on herself to run things; independent, strong willed, and in possession of an acerbic wit. We exchanged a nod of greeting before taking a seat off to one side.

The thick demitasse sized espresso she brought to my table after a few minutes was refreshing, a sip of hot, put caffeine. Thick, it hit my tongue with a bitter tang and slid like an almost caress, down my throat.

“My thanks to you Nute, I really needed that.” 

She snorted delicately at the understatement, “Yes, so I see. I hope you planned on staying for awhile tonight.”

Looking up, my curiosity vaguely peeked, “Why?”

“New player, American but he does not play like one, guitar, very nice. I booked him for the entire week at the measly price of coffee,” Nute laughed, winking at me conspiratorially.

“I’ll stick around. It’s busy our there but not as bad as it will be by Saturday.”

Her face clouded over for a moment and she nodded grimly, then smiled, “Yes, yes. Now, drink up, relax a little eh?”

I nodded and sat back in my chair, watching my fellow customers through the heavy wreath of smoke permeating the air. Native Cairenes mostly, they lounged comfortably in large parties around the ornate cisterns of their water pipes. Turbaned and draped in dusty robes, they wore old fashioned sandals on their feet and hand made jewelry on their wrists and ankles.

It wasn’t long before someone began plucking at strings from the back of the room. I turned and looked through the crowd for Nute’s little entertainer. A flicker of red spiky hair, an odd burgundy color, the pale flash of a skinny arm as it wrapped itself around the mahogany body of a guitar.

He looked up, head bobbing on a slender neck, one collar bone visible above the collar of his shirt where it had slipped. The faded black fabric proclaimed The Dingoes! in text barely visible after too many washes. I met brilliant green eyes through the smog of the room, inhaling sharply. The eyes blinked as the nimble fingers picked swiftly along the steel strings of the instrument, a tune emerging over the low chatter.

I looked away first, taking a swift deep pull of my espresso, draining it and setting the dainty china glass back on the table. Hesitating, I felt shaken, my mind skittering by along the possibilities, like the lines of communication telephone company’s had drilled into the earth all over the modern world, even here in the struggling modern.

 

_The thin body trembled, delicate skin over small bones, seemingly so fragile but beneath, beneath the façade lurked that crouching beast. It was as exciting as it was dangerous and I surged up into that warm embrace. Lips locked, surprisingly soft compared to the harsh rasp of reddish stumble against my own._

_Talented hands ran up my back into the hair at the back of my neck, fingers winding into the overlong strands of brown and massaging my scalp as I traced slick patterns from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He gasped harshly as I bit into the tempting lobe of his ear, arching up under me, insistent cock poking at my own…_

 

I shuddered, sinking lower in the seat and letting the hypnotic tune float over me. It sunk into my skin as surely as the smoke did, wiggling into the deep places and coiling around my bones. Silver threads spun by a wild creature contained so carefully within that simple boyish shell and poured forth for this rag tag audience to bear witness.

The hands were just how I remembered them, pale and smooth. The fingers were long and narrow, tripping along in an almost lazy way, reflecting their owner perfectly.

 

_He smiled lazily after, laying there beneath me, limp and boneless. All ruffled hair and wide green eye, pale skin and freckles, his mouth stretched into a sardonic grin. My breathing was harsh in my ears, heart pounding, like the blood in my veins. Everything stood out in detail, relief, the feel of his smooth skin around my softening penis, those thing legs wrapped around my rib cage, his soft breathes against my cheek. I couldn’t resist, leaning down to capture that grinning mouth and force my tongue between his teeth._

 

Nute slammed a second cup down on the table before me and I jumped, looking up at her. Raising an eyebrow I pulled it over next to the first as she smiled toothily in my direction.

“Good isn’t he?”

“ _Evet_.”

She laughed loudly and slapped me on the back, “More then just good I think,” another quick wink at me and she had pulled out the other chair at my table and seated herself in it.

I grunted noncommittally and glanced back towards the stage where Oz had segued into a new song. Something lilting and Irish, so completely out of place in this city of heat, dirt and sweat. The men in robes twitched slightly but for the most part, the little musician remained ignored.

Nute surprised me then, the way she sat there in her chair, all darkly tanned skin and desert garb, tapping her bejeweled wrists along to the almost-jig, humming something vaguely familiar and jouncing. She looked over at me and laughed again, “It’s something my old foremother used to sing when I was a child.”

I nodded; it reminded me of something that had been a favorite of my own grandmother’s as well.

Afterwards, when the last customers had finally nodded goodnight and strolled to their beds in distant corners of the city, I brought my empty glasses to the front, leaving them with Nute’s boy who was on clean-up duty. The lights had been dimmed and a few golden wax candles had been lighted in their wall sconces. On stage I watched the young man pack up his things, skin soft and glowing white.

He glanced up from the guitar case laid across his knees, eyes dark and flickering from the play of light and shadow on his face.

I felt caught in that instant. There was a chasm between us, stretching across the open floor of cushions and tables. It had been almost a year since I left London; a cold rainy morning like so many others. The pale, milky light of dawn diffused through grey clouds and shining on the then bleached tips of his black hair, fading into brown where the unruly locks had grown out.

He had turned over in his sleep, messy hair sticking up flat from his head and one cheek had had pillow creases on it. I had tried to be quiet, gathering pants and shirt, gun and ‘bike keys quickly, pulling on my shoes without bothering to unlace and retie them first. Still, he had stuck his nose out from under the covers and blinked up at me, sleepy eyes pale and a little blood shot from smoke.

There were no words, I think he got it. After all, I really wasn’t doing anything more or less then he had, taking off from Sunnydale like a bat out of hell as Cordelia had put it once. But I had felt guilty nevertheless, silently reproached in my soul, even as I dropped one last kiss on that wide mouth and tripped out of the door. I didn’t look back then.

I didn’t now either, nor were there any words.  
\- - -  
I didn’t go by Nute’s place on Tuesday, the mawlid was approaching and the local nightlife seemed to have decided to get the party started prematurely this year. It was late, encroaching on early by the time I finally figured enough was enough. Already a woman in an ancient scarf skirt had sold me three beaded bracelets, a man in dark blue cotton robes had saddled me with a watermelon and a young kid had nagged me into buying a copy of the latest issue of the _Al-Ahram_ off him.

The melon was easy enough to get rid of by way of a group of local street urchins and the magazine came surprisingly in handy when a particularly horny Grezil failed to get the picture that I was trying to kill him. As for the bracelets—I shrugged and stuck them in a pocket. I’d offload them on Nute or her daughter if nothing else.

Exhausted, my head pounding from a painful impact with a dumpster over in the back alley near King Fouad Avenue and the constantly flickering spastic light of bobbing lanterns, I turned towards home. Gratefully falling into bed with a creak and sleeping till morning, I really was starting to wonder how Mr. Giles pulled this off as successfully as he did.

Wednesday I slept in, nursing a bottle of water and an order of take out from a flourishing little Cuban place a block away from my apartment. A thick affair of a _media noche_ , overflowing with slices thinly sliced ham and imported Swiss cheese with an equally overflowing price by Cairene standards and garnished by an extra order of mariquitas.

The day passed anonymously enough, sitting around in my air conditioned flat with the television buzzing now again and a pile of books spread out before me on the kitchen table. I was picking through the left over take out around nine that night when I got a call from my father. 

I’m still not entirely sure why he called me exactly and to be honest he sounded more then a bit smashed but I listened to him gripe at me for upwards of a quarter of an hour before asking him.

There was silence on the other end for several minutes before I could make out the sound of a bottle clicking against the plastic of the handset, “Your mother is in the hospital. The doctors told us it didn’t look too serious but—” he trailed off and was silent.

“Do you want me to fly out there?”

The old man swallowed and there was a muted _thunk_ across the line, “No—no, don’t trouble yourself.”

I sighed internally and pinched the bridge of my nose, “Look, father—”

“No Wesley, just forget I called,” and with that he hung up.

Several minutes passed while I stared at the dead connection. I hadn’t bothered to drop by for a visit the last time I was in London and it had been an upwards of four years since I had spoke to either of my fellow Windham-Pryces. Something inside me twisted tighter and I couldn’t help but hope that it could be comparatively long before I had to again. 

That night I didn’t bother patrolling, the loud noise from the streets was both annoying and reassuring. Instead I took down a bottle of Golden London’s Dry Din, pouring out an easy couple of fingers and settled down into a deep cushioned chair to watch the play of lantern light through the slated blinds covering the windows.

Wednesday dawned clear and bright. Blinking, I groaned against the sunlight—it was like being hit smack between the eyes by an anvil. You’d think I would learn one of these days that getting drunk just wasn’t a good idea anymore. Until that day though, I suppose I’d just keep investing in Tylenol. I gritted my teeth and stumbled out of my bed, making my way to the kitchen gingerly.

The white stucco walls glowed in the early morning; I clamped my eyes closed and groped for a glass of water and the medicine cabinet. The day was basically like that, interrupted once in the late afternoon as I ventured out for groceries and to check the post office.

That night I pulled on a jacket, tucking a stake in the pocket and the guns in their holsters. The crossbow came out of the umbrella stand behind the door, a gift from my parents back at the Academy, along with a dozen bolts and a carrier which I slipped over a shoulder.

Outside it was already pitch black, the moon a tiny sliver in the sky and the stars partially obscured by pollution. A crowd of laughing teenagers passed me on the street, jostling each other and remaining completely ignorant of my presence in that way young people always seem to possess.

Pulling the short collar of my coat up higher I turned to the east and headed up the street towards the main bazaar district. I worked through the crush of partiers and hagglers, grabbing a pinch pocket intent on my wallet.

By the wee hours of the morning I had made it into a part of the city near Nute’s place and I decided to stop in quickly. The windows in the bottom portion of the café were dark though and the curtains over the glass windows drawn tightly shut. The grate was pulled down over the storefront as well, a heavy chain and padlock securing it against thieves. A single light bulb burned in an upstairs window, part of the little apartment above the shop where the family resided.

Puzzled I glanced up and down the street but there wasn’t any immediate trouble that needed to be taken care of so I walked around to the back of the building where a brick and iron staircase lead up to the second story. Ascending silently, I rapped softly on the door; there was a shuffling of fabric and muffled voices. The door opened and a pretty oval face, eyes wide and features drawn but hallowed pleasantly by the warm light of the room behind her.

“Sarai?”

She blinked, glancing over my shoulder into the night then motioning me into the room. Her skirts rustled as she closed the door behind me. Nute’s grandchildren, a twin boy and girl who looked like what I imagined the old lady must have in her younger years, huddled in a wicker chair.

“You received our message then, yes?”

I frowned, glancing at the shaking children, taking in the silence of the room. Jem, Sarai’s younger brother, sat silent in a dim corner of the room, face dark and eyes hard.

“What’s—no. What’s wrong?”

She sighed, though it sounded more like a strangled sob then anything, “She’s been taken! Oh dear Lord—” Sarai hid her face in her hands. Silently I took an elbow and lead her over to a kitchen chair. She collapsed into it and rested both arms on the tabletop, breathing raggedly and eyes suspiciously wet.

“What do you mean?”

“I did not see it myself but Jem was in the backroom when it happened,” she looked up at him with dark eyes, “Demons, they took Nute last night. Trashed the store and made off with her.”

“Demons?”

She twitched and nodded, eyes darting nervously over to her brother before coming back to look up at me. Her voice stuttered and shook slightly with that dark terror all Cairenes used at night when they spoke of the things hidden in even darker places, “He says it was the Shak’alai.”

Outside a scrawny rooster from the house next door crowed shrilly as the sun began to peek over the horizon.  
\- - -  
I left the family after Sarai’s husband came back home, promising to find out what I could. The young woman’s eyes had been swollen and red but she gave me a grateful nod and an almost bone crushing squeeze of the hand. 

By the time I got home the non-partiers of the city were beginning to waken both for breakfast and for work. The shop owners who hadn’t been open all night long raised the steel grills over their front windows in the morning light. The sky was lightening into a pale robin’s egg blue, the color alike to an actual egg I found once as a boy in the forested park near my family’s estate.

I pulled at the uncomfortable tightness of my collar as I fumbled for my house keys. They jangled in the lock and I ducked into the dim anteroom. Thoughts distracted as I mentally shifted through what little information I had about the present clan of Shak’alai, I didn’t immediately pick up on the unsettling vibe my watcher instincts where giving.

Heading straight for the kitchen, I only paused when I noticed the light above the sink was on, a pale barely visible glow, made weak and insubstantial by the brilliance of the Egyptian sun. Freezing there, I slipped a hand into the waistband of my jeans where one of the hand guns was tucked under the belt. I pulled it free, checking the status of the clip surreptitiously and angling back towards the living room.

I glanced through the doorway, eyes taking in the seeming neatness of the room. I took a step past the threshold, bringing the gun up and slipping the safety off with a soft click. Moving silently across the rug covered floor I paused behind the sofa, bringing the gun up to shoulder height. There was a shuffling sound of someone shifting their weight and I tensed, voice tight, “Stand up slowly, no sudden movements, hands up and turn to face me.”

The noise stopped, the tension in the room racketed up a notch and I could hear whomever it was freeze. A minute passed in silence before my intruder stood, languorously rising from the couch. The hair was immediately distinctive; the rust orange shirt was worn thin, hanging loose around his shoulders.

“Oz?” my voice was strained a bit around the edges and the gun wavered, dropping a bit.

He turned cautiously, looking up at me from under that shaggy mop of henna hair. His mouth quirked slightly, eyes bright in the sunlight filtering through a window on the far side of the living room, “Hey.”

The gun dropped down to my side, hesitating, before I slipped it back into the holster. I blinked and looked around the room, eyelids batting against the brightness of the room. It seemed almost surreal that everything was the way I had left it last night, looking closer I noticed a worn leather backpack resting against the sofa at the werewolf’s feet.

I felt like a fish out of water for a minute, stumbling around in my head as I tried to come up with something to say to this vision out of a past I thought I had seen the last. Not just Sunnydale but of that long flight from all my failures in the West as well. But there he stood, silent and a little stiff in the middle of my living room, “Wha—what are you... why—?”

“I noticed you the other night, at Nute’s place?”

I nodded, shifting my weight from foot to foot ever so slightly, “Yes, right, best coffee in the city.”

Oz nodded, “Yeah.”

I stared at him, taking in that sun burned nose and the fresh freckles, brought out by the constant glare from the sun. He met my gaze calmly, bland in his laconic way.

“Thought I’d say hi, so… hi,” he sketched a little wave, the smile wilting only slightly.

“Hello,” I fidgeted a bit more, “how… how have you been?”

“Good,” his head bobbed jerkily, “I’ve been in Italy for the last month or so, good pasta, lots of tomatoes.”

I nodded in agreement, “What are you doing in Cairo? A—aside from the obvious of course. Well, I mean, the playing,” I felt like an idiot, standing there and gesturing vaguely as I spoke. He was still smiling though as he replied.

“Just passing through. I heard that the Sayyida mawlid was something not to miss.”

“Oh yes, yes, it’s quite a party,” I shuffled my feet again, pulling at the sleeve of my shirt. I gestured behind me, “Would you like something to drink?” 

He gestured to a glass on my chow table, condensation long since evaporated into the dust choked air. I could feel myself making a real arse out of… well myself but it was like a train rushing headlong down the track, something so powerful hurling it along and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. 

The red head’s smile quirked higher on the right and he gestured back towards the couch, “Maybe we could sit, talk?”

I blinked, “Yes, of course.” I slipped around the furniture and seated myself on the settee across from him. The glass of water had left a slightly discolored ring on the table where the water had dried. My fingers were jerking sporadically in my lap, “So… was there something specific that you wanted to talk about?” I wanted to slap myself as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

He seemed uncertain for a minute in the face of my question, shuffling back into a seated position on the couch, perching a bit uncomfortably on the edge of a cushion. He seemed disinclined to say anything and I was trying to come up with my next brilliant remark when he replied, “I really should have thought this out better I guess.” He laughed slightly, a skittering, dry sound, “You heard what happened to Nute?”

I nodded, “Sarai told me.”

“Do you plan on doing anything about it?”

I looked at him, eyes sweeping from one feature to another, “I _had_ planned on asking around a little, see what information I could dig out of the local underground community, yes. Hopefully something useful will come up, but I’m afraid the locals fear the Shak’alai and I doubt it’s for wholly unjustified reasons.”

Oz tilted his head in what I took to be agreement, reaching out and picking up his room temperature glass, twisting it around in his hands. The moment was just this side of uncomfortable and I stood abruptly, pacing away from the room and heading back into the kitchen. There I took down a glass of my own and swiftly filled it with water out of the Bria filter on the counter. I didn’t bother with ice, taking long swift drags of the warm, dusty water.

“I shouldn’t have come.”

I jumped slightly, irritated both at the young man for being there at all but mainly at myself for not having noticed his stopping a few feet behind me. Clutching the glass like a lifeline I turned to face him, stomach flopping about as I caught a whiff of that unforgettable smell—something like wild cedar and the salt wind blowing in off the ocean, woodsy and wild, rich and spicy.

“I’m sorry,” he reached out a hand as if to touch me but stopped short, “I—I just saw you and I thought I should at least come once before I left…” a soft snort following his words and it was painful to listen to, “I’ll go.” I watched the slender arm drop away and turn; he had slung the bag up over one shoulder by the time I had gotten my legs moving again. I was frozen where I stood, watching him walk into the entry hall without glancing back.

He was fiddling with the door, sliding the deadbolt back and working at the secondary lock when I spurred myself into motion. Practically stumbling over my own feet and feeling as big a fool as I had back in California I slapped a hand against the siding of the door just as he was opening it. It closed again with a bang and we stood there, Oz looking up at me from beneath a shock of thick hair, all hard brows and sharp eyes, a little leery with me towering over as I did, arms framing his face, our bodies mere inches apart.

That smell surrounded me, young man mingling so dangerously with wolf to create a surefire aphrodisiac to anyone, something dark edged and chaotic that could draw people to it. It always had been like that for me, watcher training or no, even when I hadn’t been willing to admit it to myself.

“Don’t go,” I didn’t know what I was saying, my tongue had hijacked my mouth and was running wild, “I have to go out and work but… you don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”

His eyes flicked back and forth, studying my face with an unnerving intensity before that crooked smile peeked out again causing my stomach to flutter. The reaction was beginning to worry me.

“Ok.”

And that seemed to be that… for now.  
\- - -  
I left Oz not long afterwards sipping on a fresh, cool glass of water and the telephone to order food for himself while I ran off and played hero. There hadn’t been anything useful in my personal library on the Shak’alai as I had feared so I set off across town in search of other information fonts, heading in a mostly direct route towards the Gezirat el-Roda and a bar there called Anton DuZur’s, a place favored by vampires elite in the city and some of the snobbier demon types. It was a cool subterranean spot ideal for those wishing to escape the sun and any prying eyes. Regular patrons tended to waste the day away sipping cocktails and listening to Old World jazz. Ric Merculo was one such patron and I figured if anyone would have something fresh on the Shak’alai it would be him.

The bouncer at the door stared coolly at my entrance but made no move to actually intercept me—so long as I didn’t cause too much trouble, such as killing a guest still seated at his or her table, they didn’t try to restrict me access, city demon hunter or no. I wasn’t the only human to order drinks at DuZur’s but I was certainly the poorest and usually the only with a purpose to do other then drink myself silly and get laid by something thin, tanned and pliable, demonic or not.

It didn’t take long for me to spot Ric through the smoky haze and dim light, a white suited figure stationed at his usual table in the back. A buxom brunette sat perched on his linen clad lap, laughing stupidly at whatever the Murz had just whispered into her ear. All in all the Murz look decently human, especially in dim or natural light and it was only under the shock of florescent light that the oddly purple tinge in their skin became obvious.

Ric looked up at my loud bit of throat clearing, the smile on his face wavering slightly. I’d never laid a finger on the guy to date, a few of his toughs maybe but that was part of the business, so my curiosity was peeked at the reaction. Usually my visits caused more of a low key glee because I never talked to Ric except when it involved information and money, for me and him respectively and there’s nothing a Merculo loves better then money.

He pushed the brunette away, eyes still on my face, whispering absent reassurances to her and shooing her away from the table with a hastily brandished fifty. Sitting back in his seat he folded his hands across his flat lower abdomen where the suit jacket fell away, unbuttoned, “Mr. Wyndam-Price, what an unexpected pleasure. Please, sit.”

I took the offered seat, waving away the waitress who materialized out of nowhere before I had even settled in, “Ric.” His smiled twitched and my curiosity twisted into something a little more cautious, wary. I leaned forward across the table, holding his gaze as I spoke, “What can you tell me about the Shak’alai?”

“Why do you want to know about the Shak’alai? Nasty buggers, mean, kill people, not planning on inviting to them to your next barbeque are you Wesley?”

My scowl darkened at the nervous, twittering words, “Not unless fire happens to be a good way for dispatching them, no.”

Ric flicked a glance around the room before leaning closer towards me, face inches from mine and I could almost taste the oddness of the Murz’s genetically lavender scented breathe, “Most would be rather upset with me for giving away warnings thus, you’ve made quite a few enemies around these parts Wesley, but I feel it is my civic duty to tell you not to go chasing after the Shak’alai. Nasty is putting it kindly.”

“Ric.”

He flinched and waved his hands around in a placating manner, “Fine, your funeral as they say.” He cleared his throat and scooted closer, “There is not much I can tell you. Demonic, obviously, they hibernate in their big houses all over the rich parts of the city for decades at a time but every, eh, hundred years or so they all awaken and terrorize the locals for a couple years. Strength and slime wise they’re pretty garden variety, what you really have to look out for is their, uh, what did you call it once? Mojo? Yes, it is their mojo that’s the real kicker.

“Rumor mill has it that the family awoke twelve nights ago, began restoring their funds and such. Blah, blah, blah. Saturday’s the big night though, when they’ll summon their strength to them and begin their reign.”

“What do you mean?”

He shuffled his about as he spoke, “I _mean_ that Saturday at midnight, because it is always midnight correct my friend? Anyway, midnight, they take their chosen sacrifice to the grand house of all their operations and sacrifice him or her to such and such god, some ancient family deity if I remember correctly, and thus return their depleted magics to the living generation and its appointed leader. Or some such blather—like I said I don’t know very much. No one knows much because no one wants to know much, follow?”

I nodded slowly, taking in what he had said. The waitress had returned with a refill for Merculo’s drink and stood hovering over both of us with an expectant look. I waved her away again and pushed back from the table, stopping when I thought of one last thing, “Where can I find their leader?”

Ric shrugged and took a quick drag of his rum and coke, “Who knows.”

“I think you do.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, his uneasiness seeming to dissipate with the fresh infusion of liquor to his system, “That’s your problem, not mine.”

Someone stumbled over my chair with a hiss. I stood and spun around ready for whatever fight might have just run—literally—into me but froze as the yellow gold eyes flashed and were gone as their owner practically ran from the café. Ric smirked at me from the rim of his drink and raised it in a mock salute.

“Goodbye Mr. Wyndam-Price.”

I sighed at the quandary and took off after the vampire at speed. He was trying the old disappearing into the crowd maneuver but it was obvious to everyone within fifty feet that he’d had far too much to drink, even for a vampire. It didn’t take much skill of my own to follow the string of outraged cries and swearing as the black clad figure stumbled through the crushing throng sweeping by on their way towards Shari El-Gami’a. 

He paused at a cross section and that’s where I made my move, shoving into one shoulder and directing him into the dark recesses of a dank alley.

“Hey man, whatcha think you’re doing?” he tried to shake me off, growling low and broken in his throat. “Lego---leggo man!”

I rolled my eyes— _tourists_ —grabbing for a stake out of my back pocket as the minion struggled feebly. This was ridiculous, I know Buffy used to complain that the vampires weren’t “trying” anymore but I never thought I’d be forced to agree with her so completely. 

The stake slid free of my jacket and I drove it into the creature’s heart without a second thought, sneezing as I accidentally inhaled dust. The noise behind me was uninterrupted, a wall that never wavered in sheer exuberance. These bacchanal-like festivals were all the same wherever you went, loud, obnoxious and chock full of the sort of idiots like the guy presently covering me in dirt.

“You want to know how to find the Shak’alai, watcher?”

I jumped at Ric’s voice practically in my ear and spun around, hand holding the stake rising automatically as my heart beat triple time in my chest, “Bloody—what are you doing?”

His pale lips tightened and he frowned, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive posture, “I’m offering to tell you what you want to know.”

Straightening I lowered my arm but kept my grip on the stake. There wasn’t anything Ric was doing outwardly that told me he was jittery as all hell, just an instinct, “Why would you do that?”

The Murz shrugged indifferently, tilting his head and staring at my forehead, “At the best you take care of any competition the Shak’alai might present in future business dealings, at worse the community gets rid of a small thorn in our collective sides. I don’t see anyone being too terribly upset with me and either way, none of us looses anything. You, on the other hand, well I guess that’s your business, eh?”

And that’s when I knew Ric really had been holding out on me about this rising or whatever the hell it was. I _wasn’t_ the only one in town who could loose out if the Shak’alai came to power—using Nute as their sacrifice—but it seemed I was the only one stupid enough to go after them. Stupid was never how I would have described myself.

I had no idea at the time just how stupid I really could be, or how easily taken in.

“Alright, talk.”

“They’re on Gezira, the loop in Shari Et-Tahrir on the edge of the Andalus Gardens. You know where I’m talking about?” 

I nodded thoughtfully, tucking the stake back into my pocket. Ric was already working at smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of his suit, “Thank you.”

He shrugged, giving the suit jacket a last tug and smirking at me through the gloom, “Let’s call it even, yeah?” he sniffed slightly and turned, disappearing back into the night.

I was in motion a minute later, heading out of the alley and to Shari Abu Seifen Street. Hopping a boat I made it back to the mainland and headed north at a good clip. My apartment was between Roda and Gezira on the mainland on the edge of Old Cairo and I ran when it came into sight, fumbling with the lock and jerking the door open. Inside it was dark but the ratty leather pack was still on the couch even though Oz was nowhere in sight.

The motorcycle keys were in their place at the bottom of a badly chipped coffee mug on the counter, the helmet tossed carelessly on a chair. I grabbed both, pausing on my way out to glance back towards my bedroom door where a rumpled head had appeared. Slanted green eyes glowed in the dim light and I felt like I should say something but words were lodged in my throat and time was slipping by faster and faster it seemed, my goal halfway across town.

My mouth opened and closed and I sighed, shaking my head and fleeing the apartment. The bike was in its spot under the building’s awning, a small cramped space under which everyone sort of piled their junk too big or two heavy to lug up and downstairs frequently. The engine rumbled to life, purring sweetly beneath me, my most prized and valuable procession and again I felt a rush, glad that I had decided to keep my baby despite hard times.

 

_Earnest brown eyes looked up from under a dark mop of shaggy black hair, “Where do you plan on going?”_

_I shrugged, glancing out the window of the tiny cubbyhole café. The streets were grey and the sky that familiar dark color, clouds thick and heavy, rolling low in the sky. Buckets of rain sloshed over the streets, flowing continuously into ditches and street drains. I could almost smell it, that sharp clean smell smothering the ugly scent of tar and petrol coating the cement, “I haven’t really decided yet.”_

_“But you won’t stay in town?”_

_I glanced at Nigel over the top of my coffee cup and shook my head, “There’s nothing here for me, especially when the Council’s scorn with regards to me is as strong as ever. I’m just about broke—I’m just going to keep moving… India maybe? Eventually.”_

_He glanced away and out to the street, eyes sweeping over the bike where it was getting soaked. His mouth tightened into a thin line and he turned back to me but I was already shaking my head emphatically._

_“It’s not an option.”_

_Sighing, his shoulders sagged slightly and he absently flipped his heavy hangs away from his eyes, “If you say so.”_

_“I do.”_

\- - -  
Gezira, sometimes called Zamalek, is an island in the middle of the Nile where it winds through greater Cairo. Lesser known then Roda, which is made famous itself by the tourist site it affords with the Nile meter, there really isn’t anything spectacular to see on Gezira except for a few gardens such as they were, a few bridges spanning the Nile and the worn down office buildings of past political parties. I had only been there once myself and briefly, when I first came to Egpyt. 

Down town was crowded this time of night with shoppers, partiers and clerks. Pedestrians clogged the semi modern streets, thankfully wider then in Old Cairo and I was finally able to escape the worst of it as I hit Shari Et-Tahrir on the mainland. Racing through the light traffic in the night I crossed the pitch black Nile, lines of bobbing crafts like tea candles in a narrow bathtub, resplendent in their reds and oranges, bringing life and revelry to the old silent waters.

Then the Nile was gone, slipping away into the darkness behind me as Et-Tahrir looped into the dark gardens of Andalus. I turned the engine down, there was no one else in the immediate area that I could hear so I took my time, eyes open and headlights sweep the road ahead of me.

Nothing. The loop ended and we came out of the lightly forested area. More then a bit annoyed, at myself and at Ric, I turned the bike around and went for another look, risking a quick glance at my watch and gunning the engine back into the gardens—there wasn’t time for this to have been a wild goose chase or for mistakes. Another pass through and I still couldn’t find any signs of inhabitation anywhere along the road.

A light flashed across me from the road’s shoulder and a man called out to me in Arabic.

“You! What are you doing?”

I idled the motor and turned on the seat to get a good look at the man, a bit wizened and stooped about the shoulders, dressed in a rumpled SSRC (Systems of State Reservation Committee) uniform. He held an ancient flashlight in one hand and a policeman’s night stick in the other, the light a pale, sickly yellow.

I spread my hands in what I hoped to be a non threatening manner, “I’m looking for a house,” I replied, slipping into the local dialect.

A graying eyebrow arched, wrinkling the thick leathery skin and he laughed harshly, the light skittering, “No house near here. Only the gardens,” he gestured expansively at the vegetation around us. “Go home,” he waved the hand holding the nightstick back in the direction I had originally come, “Go home and sleep it off, eh?” he laughed again and turned away, light bobbing like a firefly in the closed night.

Watching the light until it disappeared I was tempted to head back to Giza Square where I knew Ric kept a house and confront him but as I kicked the bike back into life and headed back to the mainland in defeat I found myself aiming for home. It was well past midnight and my street in Garden City was for once quiet. 

I killed the engine, feeling hallow and more then a bit anti-climatic. My shoulders sagged and my head felt heavy, my temple throbbing but I had nothing more to go on. There was nothing I could do right at the moment if I didn’t _know_ what I was dealing with here. I could only hope that Ric hadn’t been lying about the time of the sacrifice, could only hope that I still had a couple more days to find Nute and play the hero in some truly idiotic notion of bravery.

I straightened and swung my leg over the leather seat, walking the slowly ticking machine under the awning and locking it up for the night. A dog was barking in the street one over from me and the rats were rustling and squeaky in the gutters.

 

_“*…look no further. Angel Investigations is the best! Our rats are low."_

_“Rates!”_

_"It says—”*_

_“Wesley?”_

_“Sorry—it, a, it was already in the player…”_

 

I turned away from the rather depressing scene and headed up the stairs of my building. Pausing on the threshold to smile reassuringly at Umm Leet where the old lady had stuck her head out from the floor above. She didn’t say anything, it wasn’t their way, but I could tell she was both parts curious and worried. Returning my nod her door closed and I entered the dark interior of my entry way. 

Oz was seated at the small breakfast table, slowly twirling an empty coffee cup around and around between his hands. He looked up as I entered, all shadowed eyes and wild hair. My hands itched to reach out and touch it but I resisted, instead sinking down into the chair across from him and tossing my keys onto its scratched surface. The mug stopped moving and he traced the line of my hand with a pale finger, up and down the long first finger and the webbing in between it and my thumb. I sighed and met his questioning eyes, feeling tired and world weary.

He quirked a smiled and grabbed my hand, tugging me up from my chair. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, because I couldn’t really believe that he had stayed and was—but he shook his head, placing his other hand on my mouth.

“Don’t, we’ll deal with the rest of it tomorrow.”

The hand slipped away and he tugged gently on my hand in the direction of the bedroom and I nodded, letting everything else fade into the background just for the moment with another sigh, “Tomorrow’s good.”

FINIS

**Additional Author’s Notes:** this is both a bit shorter and very different from what I originally intended. Real life however has provided little in the way of writing inspiration so I hope it isn’t too terrible. The ending I realize probably isn’t very appreciable but for me the point of this story was not the business with the Shak’alai, the entire thing is meant merely as a “slice of life” snippet. 

I've tried to stay as credible to Cairo as I can but between reading my source material (a fascinating but not well indexed book by Max Rodenbeck) and the writing of this story much of what I read was forgotten because it was a lot of information with a lot of Arabic names and I’ve never been very good with Arabic. 

8236


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